


TURBINE PETS

by thoughtsdemise



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Denied orgasm, Edge of Smut, M/M, Mech/Mech, Medical Procedure, Out of Character, Suggestive Themes, Tactile-play, field-play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-25 10:59:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9816962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thoughtsdemise/pseuds/thoughtsdemise
Summary: A nettle of light and lingering touches over metal flesh.





	

Ambulon wraps a microfiber cloth around a thin metal tube.  He lays the prepared instrument aside and repeats this process six more times.  He opens several small bottles of cleaners and waxes to place alongside squares of micro-fiber cloths.  A soft clatter of metal and an impatient chuff of air draws his optics to the large desk.  Ambulon turns back to check the size and shape of the screwdrivers he had laid out with the other instruments to hide his pleased smile.  He knew his CMO was not a patient mech, but it always amused him how much Pharma acted like a newly activated frame despite the war.   _ Or maybe because of it, he is so much like-- _ Ambulon rests his hand on a twitching leg to ask for a moment of calm.  He looks toward the ceiling to gather his thoughts away from the past to concentrate on what was happening now.  The procedure needed his full attention.

“You really need to take better care of yourself, Pharma.”

White fingers trace along a blue leg.  He lifts his hand away from the frame as it moves unconsciously into the petting touch.  He can no longer hide the small smile he sports, suddenly very glad his boss was on his front.  The heel of his palm presses a circular pattern into the small of the flyer’s back before thumbs are pressed deeply into the protoform plates on either side of the spinal strut.  The burr of metal fingers moving over protoform is drowned out by the quickly aborted clunking whirl of cooling fans.  Pharma’s frame shivers in slight pain.

“Get on with it, Ambulon!”  A blue fist impacts the surface of the desk the flyer.

“Mm, yes sir.”

The ward manager’s gaze lingers before he shutters his optics.  He reaches for a cloth-wrapped tube and moves up to Pharma’s shoulder.  He eyes the organic mess that sticks to the fan within Pharma’s yellow turbine.   He edges the tube in between the fan blades, withdrawing it after a few strokes.  For each blade and space, Ambulon repeats the process of gathering and scraping off the small bits of organic mess that the Delphi CMO had been unable to remove himself.

Pharma finally releases a shuddering sigh, feeling much cleaner now that the airflow to his compression chamber was no longer obstructed.  He moves to slide off the desk, but a firm hand along his lower back stops him.  Pharma glances back at Ambulon with a raised brow.  His optics widen as the younger mech swings himself up onto the desk.  The ward manager straddles his CMO’s hips before gingerly resting back on his own heels.

“As I’ve said you should take better care of yourself, Pharma.”  Ambulon brings up a jar of smoothing wax made from certain mineral found only on Delphi.  “Since to you refuse to follow this simple request; I’m now making it a medical command as is my duty as ward manager.”  He grins at the glare leveled at him and raises a single finger in a tsking gesture at the, as of yet, unvoiced protest.  “Before you start bitching,” he continues to speak over the outraged sputters, “may I remind you that it was you who inform both Firstaide and I daily to carefully inspect our job descriptions.”

Ambulon shoves his fist into the turbine’s exhaust port.  His fingers lace around the interior cone while the tips brush at the combustion cells.  He flexes the cables in his hand to create a slow petting motion.  He presses his full weight forward a little to effectively trap the jet to the table.  The clanging ring of his thumb hitting some of the metal within stills Pharma’s vocalizer completely as the CMO lays lax at that unspoken request.  The thumb's tip circles the impacted metal.

The leg-former places the jar of wax on Pharma’s back.  He presses a small button along its side and the top cycles open.  He dips two of his fingers into the wax and shivers at the warmth that engulfs his fingers.  He stirs the pot before scooping out a generous amount.  Ambulon tightens his grip on the exhaust cone as he shifts his seat to draw his feet in closer to Pharma’s hips when the flyer tries to move under him.  The lower edge of Ambulon’s pelvic span ghosts over the small of Pharma’s back.  A low growl spins from the turbine in the ward manager’s hand.  The pitch remains low and mostly internal as the CMO is not willing to risk any damage to his just fixed flight engine.

Pharma grips the edge of his desk at the first swipe to the warmed wax spreads over the yellow plating of his thruster.  The scrape of Ambulon’s pelvic array along his lower back, the hand lodged in his exhaust port, and the palm that sloppily paints the wax upon the surface plates of his turbine pushes the flyer brutally close to the edge of overload.  As the peak is nearly tipped a chuckle touches his audios and everything stops.

Core flaring in exasperation of the denial, Pharma’s EM field strikes out in a harsh raw buzz against Ambulon’s.  The ward manager’s field rubs sensuously against the harsh buzz.  A wax-coated hand strokes up the turbine to rim the intake port as Ambulon rubs his chest through the wax coat spread sloppily on the rest of the yellow plates.

“Oy, boss.  Don’t get so bent out of shape.”  A sharp tug and an almost denting grip on the exhaust cone draws the flyer’s full attention.  “We’re not even done yet.  Let’s see how much we can squeeze that spark of yours until you burst.”


End file.
